


The Best Medicine

by VeloxVoid



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Gen, Golden Deer Cyril, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pranks and Practical Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25489411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeloxVoid/pseuds/VeloxVoid
Summary: War can take its toll on even the cheeriest of people. In a moment of vulnerability, Claude opens up to Cyril about the reality of it, and how even he needs a break sometimes. Luckily for him, Cyril knows the best medicine.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	The Best Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written for "The Master Tactician" zine – a zine based on the prankster habits of our favourite Claude von Riegan!
> 
> The zine is amazing, and contains over 100 pages of art and fanfic from many incredibly talented community members. What's best is that it can be downloaded either for free or with a donation that will be given directly to the "Black LGBTQIA+ Migrant Project", a fantastic charity protecting some of the most vulnerable people in our world right now.
> 
> For more info on the zine, visit this page! https://twitter.com/claude_zine/status/1286692618882240514?s=20

"Hey… Claude?"

The tactician looked up.

Standing before him, in the doorway to the library, was an almost unfamiliar figure. It took Claude a moment of blinking before he registered the loose brown curls tumbling across their forehead in a way that reminded Claude so much of himself; then, he noticed the furrowed brow - the concerned expression.

_Cyril_.

The young man had grown from the last time Claude had seen him - had changed so much. No longer was he the little boy in rags sweeping the corridors with exasperated expressions; no longer were his eyes alight as he asked his questions, allowing childish, inquisitive smiles to creep across his lips as he did. No - now, Cyril’s eyebrows were drawn and cautious, his shoulders slumped. What surprised Claude the most, however, was that those shoulders bore a spaulder and a quiver of arrows: armour and weapons.

_Even he’s been racked by war_. Claude gave a little sigh through his nose: was nobody left untouched by this damn conflict?

“You okay?” Cyril spoke up, worry lining his voice. “You’ve been sitting there for a while.”

_Huh_. “I have?”

Cyril stepped forwards from the doorway, and pointed towards the table Claude sat at. The tactician gave a shrug, and gestured for him to join. Once Cyril had perched himself upon the bench opposite Claude, he brushed the table lightly as he began to fumble over his words.

“I, uh… I don’t mean to sound rude, but you’ve been here almost all day.”

He supposed he _had_ been here a while; earlier in the afternoon, the Golden Deer had returned to Garreg Mach after what seemed to be their hundredth battle in this war. Claude had been exhausted as his ragged little party had traipsed back within the monastery’s walls, shedding their armour and weapons and retiring to their old dormitories to recuperate.

But, Claude hadn’t felt like sleeping. His eyelids were heavy from his fatigue, but he knew that once he closed them, images of war would come back to haunt him. Thus, he’d taken away to the library. This place was calm - quiet. Garreg Mach no longer served as an academy, and the spaces for learning were barren and unused. Here, surrounded by nothing but dust and untouched books, Claude had found what he’d so desperately desired: _quiet._

A place for his head to finally rest. Where he could take a moment to be himself - to not smile, or rally, or pretend to be okay.

Cyril spoke up again, and Claude looked deep into those concerned eyes, as fierce as a sunset over Almyran sands. “I dunno. You’ve seemed down ever since you got back here, when the Professor returned. I just thought, you always used to look out for me, all those years ago, so… I should be looking out for you, too.”

A feeble smile worked its way across Claude’s lips. “Thank you, Cyril.” He didn’t want to elaborate. He _had_ been down - it was no secret. Each of the Golden Deer had picked up on it too, no matter how deeply he’d tried to bury those feelings.

“Can I help you feel better?” Cyril asked. “This table’s kinda dusty… I should clean it up for you--”

“No, please,” Claude said, stopping the boy in his tracks. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Well... Tea? You like Almyran pine just like me, don’t ya?”

Why was this making Claude smile? This youthful optimism was endearing - distracting.

“Oh! You used to pull pranks on people, didn’t you?”

_Aha._ Claude’s smile became bitter at the memories. Simpler times; pouring salt into other students’ teas, rearranging the contents of their bedrooms. Hiding Ferdinand von Aegir’s horse when he so desperately wanted to groom her, and replacing all of Felix Fraldarius’ swords with wooden replicas.

Life used to be so carefree back then. Claude missed those days - missed those people.

“Why don’t you do that again?” Cyril’s eyes were bright, alight with cheer. “I remember you used to sneak up on me when I was cleaning and make me jump! That was really cruel, y’know…?”

Claude heard himself chuckle; startling Cyril was admittedly one of his favourite pranks to pull. “What do you mean, ‘do that again’?” he asked. “I can’t make you jump if you already know it’s happening.”

“No, not me!” Cyril shook his head. “The others!”

“The others…?” Claude’s lips were curling, taking on their signature devilish smirk. His mind was beginning to whir. “All of the Deer? And the staff, too?”

"Sure," Cyril said with a shrug, brushing dust from the table again with gentle fingertips; no matter how much armour he wore, it seemed he would always be Garreg Mach's caretaker at heart. "But, how would you pull off a trick that big?"

Claude had an idea.

* * *

“There,” he said with a nod. The few tables of the dining hall looked wonderful, and the tactician stood back to admire his handiwork.

He then supposed that it was Cyril’s handiwork, really. The young man had scoured Garreg Mach for festivity paraphernalia, finding some pretty golden table runners, decorations, and plenty of teatime goods. Saucers, pots, cups, tiny cutlery… Cyril had outdone himself.

The hall looked fit for a mini-banquet. A supper - a gathering before bedtime to ease everyone into a good sleep, with every flavour of soothing tea imaginable.

And their plan was fool-proof. While Claude set up the hall, Cyril had made the rounds of the monastery to ask everybody to convene in the dining hall on the hour. He dashed back into the hall now, struggling to breathe, and doubled over as he reached Claude.

“What did you tell them?” he asked the boy.

Cyril fought to catch his breath. “I said… we’re having a… small honouring...”

“Perfect.” Almost everything was in place. All he needed now was for the guests to arrive, and he could set his plan in action.

For just a moment, Claude was taken back to his academy days. The spark of cunning in his chest, the anxious excitement waiting for a prank to be pulled off - he felt young again as the sensations bubbled inside his chest, bringing a smile to his face and causing him to almost, _almost_ forget about the state of the world around him. The only thing that mattered now, to him, was his plan.

He took a few paces back, to stand at one end of the room, and waited.

“Everything okay?” Cyril asked from next to him with large, worried eyes.

Claude clapped him on the back, making a breath of air leave his lungs. “Everything is great,” he replied.

A third, pained voice drifted through the hall. “I can’t eat any more,” Ignatz moaned, and Claude turned to see the first guests arriving.

“I can!” Raphael said by Ignatz’s side.

Claude placed his hands upon his hips. “Welcome, gentlemen! Ignatz, fret not. This is just ceremonial tea - no snacks required!”

“Aw, really…?” pouted Raphael.

“What’s this all about, Claude?” Hilda’s disappointed tone called next, entering the room with Marianne clutching her elbow.

“I thought Cyril told you?” he asked back.

“Yeah, he said it was an _honouring_. Like, a celebration. What for?” She wore the disapproving facial expression she so often adopted at Claude’s japes; naturally, she suspected something.

“For you guys, of course!”

The others who entered the hall did not seem so cynical, however. Students and staff alike wove into the room slowly, their chattering filling it with such a liveliness it made Claude feel almost alive again.

Yes, _alive_ : something he had failed to feel for quite some time now. He was the leader of the Golden Deer - fearless and pragmatic, cunning and calculating - and yet, for some long and arduous months, he had failed to feel as though he had a purpose in life.

No longer. Cyril, the endearingly youthful Almyran boy who reminded Claude so much of his childhood self, stood by his side, looking out over their guests with a twist to his eyebrows.

“I-I’m not so sure about this anymore,” he muttered to Claude. “There’re quite a lot of people, now you look at it--”

The sound of the monastery’s church bells cut him off; they cried out into the evening with their low and resonant voices, signifying the beginning of the next hour, and indeed the beginning of the _honouring_.

"Find a seat everyone, please," Claude called out once the sonorous chimes were over, watching each person meander around the room to find a place at a bench.

Cyril shuffled next to him. “You sure about this?” he whispered, anxiety lighting his eyes.

Claude winked at him. “Positive.” Once the room had quieted, he spoke up once more, his voice clear and cutting through the hall as it had through so many battlefields in the past. "We just wanted to do a little something with all of you. For all the work you've done, and sacrifices you've made for us." Claude's words were sincere; he supposed that was why he was able to keep his face so straight - to crease his eyebrows slightly in pain and muster a tired, forced-looking smile. He truly did appreciate everything that these people had done for him. And _this_ was how he was repaying them…?

Could he have been any more excited?

"So, we put together a little tea party. Cyril helped, of course!” And he clapped the boy on the back again, watching him give a laboured, wobbly smile. Claude was pleased that he himself could keep such a straight face, giving nothing away as usual, but he wondered if Cyril would match the façade.

“Um, first though…” The boy mumbled, and the hall grew quiet, straining to listen to his words. “We’d like to offer a minute’s silence. To honour all of our hard work, finding the Professor again… the fallen...”

Murmurs of assent crossed the lips of their audience; Lorenz nodded sombrely, while Hilda rolled her eyes a little, and the professor’s straight face looked somewhat embarrassed. Claude had to fight to keep a grin away from his lips. _They have no idea_.

It was then that he made himself grow serious - pushed his excitement aside. Yes, Claude von Riegan did intend to honour the fallen. He intended to spend the minute thanking whatever deities truly did exist for the hard work of those around him, and for their lives, and to let those who’d died around him - _for_ him - to rest easy in whatever afterlife was out there. He valued each of these things; they were his resolve to continue fighting for what was right.

“Let’s bow our heads,” he said, voice suddenly low and solemn. And he did just that after watching the rest of the hall obey, angling his head downwards, closing his eyes, and letting images of his prayers and his wishes fill his mind’s eye.

Too soon afterwards, he felt a small tap on his hand, and looked around through the corner of his eyes. Sure enough, Cyril gazed at him questioningly, uncertainty dancing in his eyes like a flame flickering in a breeze. Claude’s lips curled, and he nodded. Enough of the sad stuff; now, it was time to play - to cheer everybody, and himself, up.

Gently, he raised a hand for Cyril, looking out across the hall with its many guests standing sombrely in their thanks, eyes trained downwards to the cobblestones beneath their feet. His heart skipped a beat; the thrill of trickery coursed through his veins as it had done so many times before in his teen years. He could not wait to taste the sweet, victorious triumph of a successful prank once more.

Claude held up three fingers, and after a moment, lowered the first. The room was so silent that Claude could almost hear the rush of his blood in his ears - could hear every bird outside calling their vespertine songs into the last dying dregs of the sunset. Even Hilda looked tranquil, eyelashes fluttering gently as she allowed herself a moment of peace. He lowered the second; the guests standing before him, Marianne and Ignatz in particular, were still and sombre, not moving even as much as a muscle as they gave their respects. Raphael’s feet shuffled ever-so-slightly, but other than him, they could have all been cut from stone - as unmoving and unyielding as the marble saints standing sentinel in the cathedral. Claude took a deep breath, felt Cyril’s eyes burning anxious holes into his skin, and lowered his last finger.

**_“BOO!”_ **

Their shouts cracked through the dining hall like cannon shots, echoing thunderous from its brick walls. Claude and Cyril, still standing with their mouths agape, were met with a cacophony of noise in response; panicked little yelps left the throats of many, while others let out shrill screams that bounced through the rafters above them like the calls of startled animals, and below it all, they babbled in their fright. Lysithea’s shrill voice carried through them, shouting curses and promises of payback while Leonie - cackling hysterically - grasped onto her shoulders to keep herself upright.

Claude raised his head to the ceiling at once and erupted in a laugh, joy spilling out of him at the wave of utter astonishment that had swept through the hall. He heard Cyril giggling beside him, and then - slowly, and one-by-one - more laughs joined them.

When at last he looked down again, the dining hall now a chamber of relieved laughter, the looks upon each face made delight flare inside Claude’s chest. Some guests wiped tears from their eyes while others - Marianne, notably - simply seemed to chuckle. But it was a good feeling: everybody, united under one roof in a chorus of contented chortles. 

It was just what Claude needed, he realised; the darkness of his mind had faded to be replaced with something light, and airy, and filled with childish glee. Triumphantly, he looked to Cyril.

“This was a great idea, kid!” he said to him.

“I just hope it makes you feel better,” the boy replied, raising his voice over the chattering hall.

It did. No matter how temporarily - no matter how soon Claude would be reminded of war again afterwards - in that moment, he was happy.


End file.
